Passport and Pants: A 'What If' Story
by S. Faith
Summary: What if Mark Darcy had arrived just five minutes later to Bridget's, at the end of the first film? This is a little 'What if...' alternate universe type postulation. Rated M for language.


**Passport… and Pants: A "What if?" Story**

by S. Faith © 2006

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**Disclaimer:** It all belongs to the strange mind of Helen Fielding. Strange in a good way, of course.

I've always been rather fond of "alternate universe" stories (aka "What if X had happened instead of Y?") and was led to ponder in the shower one night how things might have gone if Mark Darcy had shown up to Bridget's flat just five minutes later than he did after his return from London. And so this little story was born.

I placed the notes after the story this time so not to ruin some of the story elements.

* * *

**Friday 29 Dec**

It was a picture perfect snowfall. Light, white, crisp flakes, blowing and floating as if defying gravity itself, seeming to hover alongside the Mini Cooper as it traveled almost due east on A2. The backseat of the Mini was tightly packed with two women and their baggage, and Bridget Jones swore that with each bump in the road, the top of her head smacked the roof. She commented that with any luck, by the time they got to Paris, the bump there wouldn't be so large as to actually cause people to stare at the alien creature attempting to burst forth. Perhaps Parisians would think it was a new fashion statement, chimed in Shazzer.

Bridget smiled as her friends laughed. As they continued talking, she faded back into silence, sighing and gazing out at the passing snow again. Her words had brimmed with a levity she did not actually feel. Her friends had swooped in on her pity party, generously whisking her away to Paris for the weekend to try to banish from her head thoughts of The One Who Got Away. She'd tried with all of her might to be outwardly jovial and appreciative, but wasn't certain she was entirely successful.

"At the rate we're going," declared Tom, behind the wheel, "we shall be there by ten!"

"You scare me," piped up Jude, in the front beside him.

Bridget leaned her head against the cool glass of the window, looking out at nothing in particular, not able to shake the feeling she should've been somewhere else. Tom and Jude had begun to bicker about the speed: Jude claimed he was driving too fast, and Tom claimed he wasn't going fast enough.

From beside her, Shazzer poked her and said quietly, "No Mark-Bloody-Darcy, Bridge." She laughed despite herself, and resolved to think of brighter things, like getting pissed in Paris.

…

Mark pressed the door buzzer for Bridget's flat for the third time, and he was beginning to think that perhaps she was not at home. It was something of a let down, but not entirely surprising. It wasn't as if he was even supposed to be in this _country_, or as if he expected her to sit around waiting.

The door opened; he felt adrenaline shoot through his veins. Much to his disappointment, though, he found himself face to face with a grizzled old man in a cockeyed red and black plaid deerstalker, both of which had clearly seen better days.

"May I help you?" He had a strange accent, possibly Greek.

"Hello, yes, have you seen the woman who lives in the top flat this evening?" Mark pointed upwards to illustrate his point.

"Blondie girl?"

He perked up. "Yes, yes, blonde."

The older man nodded, scratching his cheek. "Mmmm-hmmm. Crazy friends took crazy girl and bags in tiny car not too long ago."

"Ahhh." So she wasn't home. Sounds like she went somewhere with her friends from the birthday dinner, possibly for the weekend. "Thank you. I'll try another time." He stepped away from the door and walked back whence he came.

…

**Saturday 30 Dec**

The time was 3:00 am. The group of four friends were not in Paris. They had not even left England. Worst of all, they had not had a drop to drink.

The longer they'd driven, the heavier the snow had started to fall until it became impossible to see but more than a few yards ahead. Consequently, Tom had missed the correct exit at one of the roundabouts, mistakenly continuing on M2 instead of A2 onwards to Folkestone and the Channel Tunnel. They didn't realize how far off course they'd gotten until an icy patch on the road caused Tom's car to skid into a kerb, skewing the front left tyre's wheel alignment to an untenable angle. That was when they realized they were in Margate, on the wrong southeastern coast to pick up even a ferry to France.

Instead of merrily boozing in Paris, they now shared a double room in comparatively quaint Margate overlooking the North Sea (Tom's treat) until they could get the vehicle's alignment serviced in the morning. They'd decided to venture down to the pub for a look-see, but came back to the room when they saw the place was filled with a lot of people much older than they were, already smashed on stout, amidst a dense cloud of cigarette smoke. The shops had closed, so there was no wine to be had.

They'd all agreed it was best to just turn in, but after staring at the ceiling for more minutes than she could count, Bridget rose from the double bed she was sharing with Tom, and stood near the sliding balcony doors, staring out at the frosty sea. She could just make out the cresting waves in the distance, a thin white horizon between equally dark grey stripes.

A subdued voice cut through the silence. "You okay?"

Bridget nodded to Tom, who'd come to stand beside her. She spoke in a muted tone as well, as she didn't want to wake Jude and Shazzer. "Couldn't sleep. You?"

"Guilt-ridden. Our big weekend in Paris is something of a bust and doesn't seem to have taken your mind off of things."

"It's all right. It's the thought that counts, really. A girl's lucky to have friends like you three."

He placed his arm around her shoulder and hugged her, saying quietly, "I'm sorry that you got your heart broken without even getting a good bit of tongue down your throat."

Bridget chuckled, settling into his friendly embrace. After a thoughtful pause, she said, "Yeah, I'm sorry too."

They were both mesmerized by the rhythmic undulations of the surf, and did not speak for some time. Bridget broke the silence. "Tom, I appreciate the whole weekend-in-Paris thing, but I'd really rather we just head home tomorrow. I've had enough 'on the road' adventure for one weekend. Besides, after 'the kerb incident', let's not tempt fate by trying to cross the Channel."

Tom nodded. "Hmmm. Excellent point, Bridge." He reached over and planted a smooch on her forehead. "Come on, let's get to sleep or before we know it it'll be sunrise and I'm not drunk enough to enjoy it."

They crawled back into the bed, Bridget grumbling all the while. When Tom asked what the complaining was for, she replied, "It is not fair that the first time in months I have a man in bed and he's a _complete_ poof."

…

"So you _are_ back, Mark!"

Mark added cream to his morning coffee, cradling the receiver between his chin and shoulder, and smiled, imagining his mother's astonished yet beaming face. "Yes, I am."

"Whatever happened?"

He didn't know quite how to best encapsulate the situation, then after a few seconds, decided on a three word summary: "Bridget Jones happened."

Stunned silence on the other end of the phone line. "What—what do you mean, Mark? What about Abbott & Abbott?"

He paused to take a quick sip of coffee. "Well… she and I had a conversation before her big speech at your Ruby Wedding… suffice to say, it completely explained what I thought had been irrational behaviour on her part. It caused me to realize I hadn't really stopped thinking about her for the better part of the past year, despite all efforts to the contrary." He paused. "I couldn't just leave that behind, never knowing."

His mother was silent again. "And Natasha?"

"Still in New York. I suppose she'll pick up the slack for the both of us."

"Hmm," his mother said thoughtfully. "Didn't much care for her anyway."

Mark was not entirely surprised to hear her say it.

She continued, "Pamela Jones shall be ever so delighted."

"There's nothing to be delighted about yet. Bridget doesn't even know I'm back. I tried going over but she was gone for the weekend, according to a neighbour." He paused to sigh. "Don't say anything to either Bridget or her mother. I'd kind of like it to be a surprise. That is, if I haven't already missed my chance."

"Darling, there's no deadline looming. It's not as if she's being married in the morning." She stopped, and he heard her take in a quick breath. "Oh! I'm _sure_ she'll be at the Turkey Curry Buffet. You can catch up with her there."

Dread filled the pit of his stomach. "I'm not sure I want that conversation to happen in front of an audience of scores of family friends. Besides, after the big toast at your Ruby Wedding, wouldn't it be somewhat embarrassing for you and Father to have me show up, pointedly _not_ in New York and focusing my efforts on someone other than 'my Natasha'?"

She laughed low in her throat. "Do you think that matters to me as much as you do?"

He smiled. How he loved his mother.

…

"Oooh! _Ooooh!_ The Shell Grotto!"

Shazzer came towards Bridget bearing a brochure for a shell-mosaic covered structure that was evidently locally famous. Bridget squinted to read the text, which sang the praises of the Grotto, as well as The Mystery Museum and the Eighth Wonder Café. "You're kidding me, right?" she asked. If she didn't know better, she'd think Shaz was drunk.

"Oh come on, it beats sitting 'round the mechanic's!"

The auto repair shop was not usually opened on Saturday, but the proprietor of the hotel rang up his mate especially for them. The weather had cleared up some; it was crisply sunny and no longer snowing. With any luck the mechanic would finish quickly and they could head back to London, so they told the fellow where they'd be going and headed there.

Unfortunately, chardonnay got in the way, thanks to a little bistro attached to a three star hotel down the street. At 4pm, the mechanic decided he'd waited long enough, left the car at the hotel and the keys with the hotel manager, and headed home, mumbling crossly under his breath about Londoners.

…

Dinner was take-away curry, as the refrigerator was in need of restocking. He ate alone at the dining room table, the silence of the place echoing in his ears. When he finished, he reached for the telephone and rang up Jeremy, who was, of course, not expecting him to be in England. Mark had pen and paper handy; he had a two-fold mission.

…

**Sunday 31 Dec**

It was fortunate that they hadn't checked out of the hotel room. The car was fixed, but the keys were with the hotel manager who'd gone home for the night, and none were sober enough to drive anyhow. They barely managed to get back into the room just after midnight before passing out on the beds.

Morning seemed to come all too quickly for the pile of unconscious bodies and blankets. The four of them did the quickest showers of their lives to rid themselves of the stench of stale alcohol, in order to get down to breakfast (and that miraculous elixir of life, coffee), claim the car keys (Tom left a cheque and a photocopy of his driving-license with the hotel manager) and head out for London, headaches be damned.

The ride back to London was fairly lively, and they all made plans to meet at 192 to ring in the New Year's. Bridget happily agreed, glad to have somewhere to go and someone to spend it with. There was nothing more depressing than spending New Year's Eve all alone, except for the prospect of spending Valentine's Day all alone, which Bridget was determined not to think about at present.

…

Mark yawned, looking up from the sheaf of papers he'd been reviewing. Jeremy had given them to him during their brief meeting; Mark's position with the firm had been decisively re-established. He didn't know how long he'd been working but the numbness in his legs told him he needed to get up. He glanced at the wall clock; five to midnight. Another new year about to arrive.

He squared the stack of papers by tapping their edges against the desktop, then set them off to the side. He also glanced momentarily at a small scrap of paper bearing a very important number, one he had obtained from Jeremy, who'd gotten it from his wife Magda. He wondered if he should try calling again, then immediately decided it was too late in the evening, heaping self-censure onto everything else on his mind. The last few times he'd called, he had hung up without leaving a message. What he wanted to say couldn't be trusted to a recording device, never mind that it was, in his eyes, the height of gauche to unload one's romantic burden onto an answerphone.

Standing up and switching off the desk lamp, he pinched his tired eyes between a thumb and forefinger. For a sickening moment he felt like this was what would be in store for him every night for the rest of his life. Quiet nights alone, probably working, as he was always working. Eating each meal alone in a funereally silent, capacious house. And, of course, sleeping alone. He'd known all along that Natasha was not the great love of his life, but at least he'd had someone to take to dinner occasionally.

As he finished washing his face up in the bathroom, he swore he could hear what sounded like firecrackers going off in the distance. For some reason, he was feeling uncommonly morose. It was not as if New Year's Eve had ever been a big social occasion for him; honestly, he didn't really care for big social occasions anyway. Things just felt very… incomplete, unfinished. It was very much as if everyone around him was living on the grand stage of life, while he sat waiting in the wings, ill-equipped to participate himself.

He didn't delude himself into thinking there was a magical single solution to this. He did, however, believe that all of this around him might have meant more if he had someone to truly share it with, and that was certainly a step in the right direction. For whatever reason, the Fates proved the massive breadth of their sense of humour by placing Bridget Jones within the sphere of his interest when he was least able to act on it.

As he laid down to sleep, he could not help but think that the bed felt bigger and emptier than it had in ages. At least he had more than a passing chance to see her tomorrow and talk to her. He looked forward to that more than he ever thought he would.

…

**Monday 1 Jan**

Oooof. Why did Bridget every year always agree to be at the Turkey Curry Buffet on New Year's Day, when she knew she'd be sick from drinking? She'd had a fantastic time at 192; with every drink she forgot a little bit more that a nice, normal, kind, non-fuckwit of a man had slipped away from her before there'd ever been a chance to begin anything. She blinked a few times at the bedside alarm clock and realized that she'd overslept longer than she'd intended to, and had missed the train to her parents. Shit.

A shower was absolutely vital, so she stumbled to the bathroom, catching a glimpse of her scary self before climbing under the water. She didn't care what her mother thought; she was not changing into terrifying sofa upholstery from the back of the closet when she got there. After showering, she ran a comb through her hair then blew it dry into a reasonable semblance of a style – at least, there were no peaks and horns. She did her usually sparse makeup, and dug up a grey miniskirt, black tights and a white sweater, an outfit she was especially find of. She looked approvingly at herself in the mirror, thinking, 'Ha, Mark-Bloody-Darcy, look at what you're missing!', before sighing heavily and reaching for the telephone to ring for a taxi. No messages, hadn't been any all weekend, save three or four hang ups the answerphone had recorded. She'd been with all of her best friends so it was probably just a wrong number.

She poked through her cupboards for something to eat, biding her time until the taxi arrived.

…

Mark held the phone up to his ear, and somewhat nervously, dialed Bridget's number again. After a few rings, he heard her voice dictate the same message he'd heard several times now: "Hello, you've reached the answerphone of Bridget Jones. I'm probably going to reach the phone _just_ after you've hung up, so please leave your details after the beep so I might ring you back. Ta!"

He cleared his throat, planning to ask if she wanted a ride, then found himself reflexively hanging up. He rationalized after the receiver was in the cradle that she was probably already on her way… or already there. Yes, he would just talk to her there. He sighed, drew his overcoat on (no reindeer jumper this year) and headed for his car, not knowing why he had such a nervous stomach over making one insignificant phone call.

Except – well, it wasn't insignificant.

The drive to the Jones' was smooth, and he was thankful that the snarling traffic jam forming was behind him. When he arrived, he went to every room in search of her (trying very hard not to look like he was searching for her), and was chagrined to find that Bridget was simply not there. Pamela confirmed it when he asked nonchalantly, though his asking set the needle of her curiosity off the chart. He tried to hide his disappointment, fetched a plate of turkey curry and a glass of wine, and commenced to socializing with the family friends.

Those who'd thought they'd seen the last of him for a while were surprised at his presence, but were to find that he was tight-lipped regarding why he was not in New York. He found his mother, who commiserated with him, patting his arm affectionately. Elaine advised him wisely that he would get his chance. He, on the other hand, felt like he was thwarted at every turn. Maybe the Fates had no sense of humour after all and were merely cruel.

Mark suddenly realized a headache was forming just behind his eyes, possibly the red wine, more likely the manifestation of the anxious tension at anticipating seeing Bridget again (and hoping that her private Ruby Wedding declaration still stood). Pamela, who hovered nearby eyeing the familial pair, saw him raise his fingers to his eyes and pounced on him to inquire what the matter might be. When he explained, she happily provided him a couple of aspirin and volunteered the use of the spare bedroom for a bit of a lie-down while the headache went away. Mark gladly accepted, just as happy for the escape from the hobnobbing as he was for a nap.

Pamela showed him to the door of the room, then withdrew, telling him to rest as long as he needed. When he entered, he realized it was Bridget's bedroom, and entered with a wistful exhale of breath. Cruel Fates, indeed. He pulled back the blanket, sat on the edge of the single bed, and slipped out of his shoes. He then laid down and drew the blanket over himself. The pillow smelled faintly of Bridget, and he sighed again, closing his eyes, hoping when he awoke the headache would be gone, even though he was not convinced he would fall asleep. In spite of this, likely due to the collective exhaustion from everything he'd been through the past few days, he dropped off into slumber within moments.

…

Bridget's flat had been buzzed – her taxi had arrived – and she was just locking her door behind her when she heard her phone ringing. She hastily went back in, just in time to hear her own message concluding and the person on the line clearing their throat then disconnecting. Gah. Another hang up. Nothing more aggravating than someone who takes the time to listen to the answerphone message and doesn't bother to leave one of their own. It would have at least made it worth her while to find out who'd called.

The taxi ride was interminable as well as unpleasant, the driver annoyingly garrulous. They'd gotten stuck in a bit of a jam, and so she arrived at her parents' much later than she should have, feeling frazzled, flat, irritable and hungry, and the sky was already beginning to darken. She would have preferred to be in her pyjamas nursing her hangover, but after the chaotic year her parents had experienced, the least she could do was come to the Turkey Curry Buffet.

Her mother met her at the door. "Darling! I was beginning to think you were not coming! I'm _so_ glad to see you!" Pamela threw her arms around her daughter. Bridget was taken aback at this unusually enthusiastic greeting and wriggled free of her embrace.

"Really, mum, I'm fine. Didn't even end up in a ditch in any point of the ride." She shucked her coat and handed it to her mother. "Hope my outfit passes muster this year…?" she queried, holding her arms out for inspection.

Her mother scrutinized her, but strangely, she looked as overexcited as a Pomeranian. "Very flattering, but you still need more colour, my dear. So drab and unexciting, all that grey; I can't imagine how you _ever_ managed to—" Bridget was not to discover whatever it was that Pamela couldn't imagine because her mother stopped and seemed to literally bite her tongue in mid-sentence.

Bridget refrained from rolling her eyes, and simply walked away into the sitting room, instinctively seeking out a man she rationally knew would not be there. Her mother was hot on her heels, nattering nonsense all the way. Sensing food might be her comfort (and her escape from her mother), Bridget headed for the buffet line, inadvertently approaching Mr. and Mrs. Darcy. Too late – they'd seen her. There was no way she could retreat to avoid them. She felt her face heat up, remembering her spur-of-the-moment speech at their Ruby Wedding. She'd never receive another invite to their parties as long as she lived. Finding her manners, she smiled and waved, and found it odd that they smiled (and it seemed genuine!) and waved back. Suddenly, Elaine's gaze connected with someone behind her – her own mother's, presumably. Oddly, Elaine began jerking her head as if to indicate they should head back the way they came, quite possibly even upstairs.

Confused beyond all reason, Bridget turned back to Pamela, who suddenly looked inspired, her mouth forming an O. "_Darling!_" she trilled. "I've almost forgotten. I've got a surprise for you! Why don't you go up to your room and see what it is?"

She furrowed her brow, wondering why her mother did not just go and get it herself. Pamela remained steadfastly in place, her eyes wide, her mouth fixed in a broad smile, nodding intermittently in encouragement like a jovially menacing bobble-headed circus clown.

Reluctantly, Bridget agreed. "Um… all right. Be right back."

"Take your time."

'What. The. _Fuck!_' Bridget thought as she walked away towards the staircase. Midway up, she glanced back and she realized her mother's eyes were still upon her. 'Mother has _finally_ lost her mind.'

She got to the bedroom and swung the door open, entered, then closed it behind herself, as mother's surprises usually involved clothing, oftentimes brocade-based. Even before she had a chance to switch on the light, she could see, via the fading sunlight coming through the window, a large lump on the bed. She flipped on the light switch for a better look, walking forward, just as the figure shifted and turned over. Bridget gasped, her hand instinctively covering her mouth, and she realized what the furtive glances and jerking head gestures downstairs were all about.

It was Mark Darcy, sleeping in her single bed.

…

The brightness in the room increased a hundredfold. Rousing from a semi-dream state, Mark blinked and opened his eyes, squinting at the bright light. He was utterly mortified to see the object of his unending consideration peering down at him from above. Drowsy and sleep-addled was not how he wanted to see her again for the first time since his departure. He sat up quickly, throwing back the blanket, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. His headache threatened a return so he massaged his temples in the hopes of subduing it, then smoothed down his hair. "I— um. Sorry."

She was clearly taken aback, robbed of speech, mouth agape. After what felt like an eternity of silence, she asked flatly, "What… what are you doing here?"

Surely she didn't think he was up here for creepy, pervy reasons…? He began apprehensively, "I was having a lie-down to get rid of a headache—"

She looked at him as if to inquire what colour the sky was in his world. "No," she said slowly, "I meant _England_. I thought you were in America."

Right, right. He'd made his mother promise not to say anything. Pamela clearly hadn't said anything either, for probably the first time in her life. No wonder Bridget was so befuddled. "Ah. Well, yes, I _was_."

"Oh." She pursed her lips and nodded ever so slightly, peering down to the hands she'd clasped in front of her.

It was a novelty to see Bridget at a loss for words. Not sure she'd find them in the near future, he prompted, "I'm surprised you have not asked why I had to come back."

A nervous chuckle, then, "I admit to some curios—wait, _had_ to?" Now it appeared as if she'd been stunned by a ball peen hammer, an utter lack of comprehension apparent on her features. "Whatever on earth for?"

He fixed her gaze with his own. When he replied, his realized his voice had gotten very quiet. "I came back for _you_."

At first all she could do was blink. Finally she asked, "For _me_?"

He nodded, the corner of his mouth turning up.

She looked thunderstruck. She looked back to her hands, then back to him. "Um. I don't quite know what to say."

He was suddenly emboldened, and so stood, taking her hands. "Perhaps you needn't say anything." He leaned in towards her, intent on kissing her.

"Wait, no." She took a step back.

He stopped, withdrawing from his advance. Had it really been all for naught? Had things changed so much in a week? He looked down, released her hands, and felt destroyed inside. Then she was speaking again, and he felt her reclaim his hands.

"Oh, Mark, I'm sorry! It's not that at all." He looked to her, hope restored. She smiled sympathetically. "I have wanted to kiss you for an age now, but it is just too, _too_ weird for you to kiss me here in my childhood bedroom."

She was nothing if not unpredictable. A smile washed across his face, his colour and spirit returning. "Do you know what?" He placed his hand upon her cheek. "I find that do not care."

He leaned forward, pressed his lips upon hers, and took her into his arms.

…

Bridget found that after a few moments, she did not care, either. Who knew nice boys could kiss like that?

…

"Did that daughter of ours ever turn up?" asked Colin Jones of his wife. The remaining buffet guests had departed within the last quarter hour.

Pamela smoothed down a curl of her hair, after collecting the last of the stray wine glasses, destination: kitchen. "Yes, yes, dear. She went off with Mark Darcy!" Colin thought she looked rather superior as she said it.

"Ahhh." Mr. Jones knew that his wife had been after Mark for a match with Bridget for some time. He was pleased at that success at last, if for no other reason than it pleased Pamela greatly.

Odd, though, that there was still a man's overcoat hanging on the coat rack by the door, and it was not his own.

…

Some time after the Joneses turned in, the silence of the darkened house was interrupted by a creaking doorknob. A solitary figure peered through the doorway, then crept stealthily forward, pulling a second figure by the hand. They went down the stairs and, just inside the front door, paused to embrace and kiss once again.

"I shall never be able to sleep here again and think it a sad and pathetic single bed at my parents'," said a subdued but playful female voice.

The man holding her smiled.

* * *

Notes:

The incident with the tire alignment? Happened to me in Hamilton, Ontario. Got stuck there overnight in the parking lot of a 7-11, after a rock concert.

The Shell Grotto, The Mystery Museum and the Eighth Wonder Café are real places that I would totally visit if I ever visited Margate. Search for "Shell Grotto Margate" on Google. So bizarre!

Thanks to Mapquest for showing me the driving directions between London and Paris.

* * *


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